The Devil and His Playmate
by LoveIsATemple
Summary: He is the poor orphan boy and she is the girl who rescues him. *Dark, AU/AH* Will become M at some point.
1. Prologue - Driving and Dancing

**A/N: **Welcome, welcome!

This came from the idea: what if Klaus and Caroline grew up together? And I do promise everything will make sense eventually.

I will update tomorrow and publish the first official part (also, there'll be a better explanation), but if the idea sounds remotely fascinating, please don't be afraid to join me in this journey.

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Vampire Diaries or Fall Out Boy. Which just further supports my belief that dreams really don't come true after all... **

* * *

**"Joke me something awful**

**Just like kisses on the necks of best friends,**

**We're the kids who feel like dead ends."**

**I've Got A Dark Alley and A Bad Idea That Says You Should Shut Your Mouth (Summer Song) | Fall Out Boy**

* * *

**Prologue - Driving and Dancing**

The road is wet and so are their faces. Rain splatters against the windshield, the wipers working overtime to remove the drops from the glass. It is mid-July, barely 7:00 in the evening, and yet the darkened sky begs to prove otherwise as it shields the population of Washington D.C. from the hopeful sunshine.

Silence fills the packed vehicle. Breathing, rain, and the occasional grumble from a sleeping, whimpering child are the only permitted noises. That suits most of them on a day like today, when they are too tired and worn and beaten to speak. If one looks properly, they will see the streaks of tears lining the Mikaelson offspring's cheeks, a result of yet another angry outburst. What they will not see, what they will always ignore even if they can see, are the small splotches of purple and blue on each child's stomach.

Niklaus, seated between his older brothers, Finn and Elijah in the way, way back, refuses to cry. He is tough, his mother always reassures him of that. Never will he allow his father, his cruel, evil father, to see him weep.

Shifting in his seat is uncomfortable, the well-formed bruises pinching his skin with every slight movement, jerking bile up his throat. But he keeps a stony face. He will not—cannot—give into the pain.

In his twelve years of living, Niklaus has grown used to his father's temper tantrums. The big lawyer works tough cases that require late nights and alcohol. Combine that with a large family and insomnia, and you've got the perfect concoction for an abusive relationship. It never gets any easier, facing the man who is supposed to love you unconditionally only to have him whip his belt through the loops in his slacks and sink the leather into your skin, but he survives.

Protecting his younger siblings is the problem. Henry is only five, but already knows the turmoils of growing up with constant marks on his flesh. Rebekah, the only girl among five brothers, suffers less than the others, but still can not escape it all. And Kol, well, he just asks for it, taunting their father with harsh words and defiance, literally begging for a slap or two across the face as if it will somehow deter the monster with the iron fist. Of course, it never works.

None gets it worse than Niklaus, though. His father has always had a vendetta against him; something he never understood, but is not in the position to question. His mother tells him not to worry, tells him to be brave in the face of danger, for there is nothing to fear but fear itself. He will be all right—okay, even—if he just remembers those few words.

Tonight was meant to be mild celebration for Finn. He had graduated high school here in D.C. and still had the British accent he'd come over with. Two things to be happy about when it came to the foreign Mikaelson family.

It ended up being a sob fest with whiny children arguing over food, something their father would not allow.

The young boy watches as the road twists and turns ahead, barely able to make out the yellow marks in the tar through the brilliant haze of rain and dusty clouds. He blinks away some sleep, noticing silently the lack of street lamps on this particular urban street.

Perhaps if the sun were out, he'd see the miles of city he's been calling his home for the past four years.

A low hum catches his attention, snapping his eyes away from the two-way lane. The sound is different; it isn't the rain, it is a rumble—the ground shakes with its force.

He strains his vision, looking out the front, trying to find something—anything—to attribute the musical noise, but sees only blackness lined with wet streaks and the occasional zig-zag of lightning.

The louder the vibration gets, the heavier Niklaus' heart beats, every nerve in his body pulsing. He bounces with the purr. His skin trembles with it.

Magical, that's what it is. Purely magical.

Until his mother starts screaming.

"Look out, Mikael!" She shrieks, loud enough for the rest of the kids to awaken.

Henry wails upon first opening his eyes, Rebekah following with her own cry.

Elijah squeaks, asking what's wrong.

Kol crosses his arms in annoyance, huffing a breath of air like he has an unlimited supply and can waste each one because right behind it is undeniably another.

Finn rolls his eyes, still lost in his dream about finally getting away from this mess, from this mini van, from this family.

Niklaus' eyes stick on a shimmering object in the near distance and blocks out the disruptive chatter in the car. It looks so beautiful, so magnificent. Like a black stallion with blaring eyes gliding on the water.

"Mikael!" His mother begs, a desperate and frightening sound.

Another flash of lightning, another whimper from his younger siblings, another roll of the eyes from Finn, another question from Elijah. And when the thunder comes, when it claps and booms and destroys, the world stops.

No more sounds fill his ears, no more thunder or lightning or rain or shouts.

All that is the left is the slice of metal imprinting his skin and the toxic scent of burning fuel choking his lungs.

* * *

Across the state border and into the heart of Virginia, a little girl is dancing away to quiet music, shimmying her hips and tapping her toes. Her mother sits on the sofa in front of her, pretending to look enthusiastic about her daughter's sudden interest in dance. A storm rages outside, the lights flickering every now and then, startling the older woman out of her observations.

"Caroline Forbes, stop that. You're going to hurt yourself," she scolds, more harshly than she'd originally intended.

Caroline pauses her sugar-induced hopping movements, staring at her mother like she is an alien come fresh from outer space. Maybe she is. She dresses like one at least, all brown and tan with an odd-shaped badge over one of her breasts.

"What is it, _mom_?" The nine-almost-ten-year-old asks, putting her hands defiantly on her hips.

Liz Forbes shakes her head and smiles, but something seems off. "Honey, come sit down next to me." She pats the bit of sofa next to her uniformed body.

Sighing dramatically, the little, blonde girl drops her arms and goes to sit by her mother. She doesn't look at her, choosing to stare obliviously at her knobbly knees. Her father always teases her about her lankiness, but she has always liked it.

"Caroline," her mother whispers sadly, tucking a thin arm around her. Caroline moulds into her mother's side, wrapping the offered arm tight around her waist. Something definitely isn't right. She waits patiently for her mother to speak again, silently dreading whatever the sheriff is about to say.

Someone sniffles and it takes Caroline a second to realise it is the woman she clings to. This shocks the girl, who has never seen her mother waver in such a way.

"Mama." Caroline hesitates, her body beginning to tremble with anxiety. "Mama, what's wrong?"

Obviously deciding ripping the band-aid is the best solution, Mrs. Forbes squeezes her daughter's shoulder and says through a heavy sob, "Oh, baby, your daddy's not coming home."

Confused, the young child stops her shaking and lifts herself up, eyeing her mother carefully. "Is he working late again?"

"No, sweetie," Liz replies, bowing her head and letting the tears fall. "He's not coming back. He's moving to New York, away from us."

She doesn't sound angry, just sad. Like there is a tear in her side that she can't quite fix. Caroline, on the other hand, wells with insecurities.

"Well, are we moving with him? Are—are we gonna see him soon?" She asks, grabbing the sheriff's face with her tiny, thin hands.

Liz continues falling apart. "I'm sorry, Care," she replies, and Caroline knows that her family has officially broken.

* * *

**A/N 2: **And tomorrow, they meet. Any thoughts?


	2. Good Swings Make Good Neighbours

**A/N: **Wow, I'm actually kind of shocked. Twenty follows in less than a day ain't too shabby. I guess the Klaroline fandom is just that amazing. Thank you to every single one of you who has already decided to follow this story.

This has got seven parts so far, but some will definitely have more going on in them than others. Also, some will be more heavily told from Klaus' POV and some from Caroline's.

This is not a fluffy tale. It will eventually get happier as they get older, with a bit more romance in it, but for a while it'll be downright dark. I won't go into specifics so as to keep a bit of the mystery, but it won't exactly be a light read. The title is The _Devil _and His Playmate after all.

Something funny before you enter the dark realm that is this opening chapter: I think I called rain to VA yesterday with the prologue. My mother texted me about an hour ago saying there were several flood warnings for the D.C. area. Yikes. And I thought England got it bad.

With that said, welcome to the first official part. The title is taken from the Robert Frost poem "Mending Wall."

* * *

**"And I want to be known for my hits, not just my misses**

**I took a shot and didn't even come close**

**At trust, and love, and hope.**

**And the poets are just kids who didn't make it**

**And never had it at all."**

* * *

**Part 1 - Good Swings Make Good Neighbours**

The Salvatore's Boarding House is large, but not as large as his family's home had been in Washington, or even London. It is minuscule in comparison, but he supposes it will have to do for now. For however long they decide to keep him.

His arm is in a sling, the bones still mending in his right hand. The damage means he cannot draw or write as the cast gets in the way, which does not sit well with the small artist.

Five weeks have passed since the…accident…and he has not been remotely able to pick up a single pencil or paintbrush. He can barely wiggle his fingers, and each movement is met with stiff pain that rings to his chest and adds another piece of brooding to his already flimsy emotional state.

He's got gorgeous scars dented on his face that burn red and pink when he is agitated, which happens more than he would like. The doctors who saved his life, stitched up the nasty gash in his stomach, said as he awoke that he will have amazing stories to tell. He does not believe them. He will never believe them.

Whispers spread about him throughout the large home, all the workers (maids, butlers, chefs) gossiping about the new, British boy come to live with the good ol' Salvatore family. He tries to keep his head held high, tries not to let the words like _murder _and _suicide _and _only survivor_ affect him too negatively. These people, they know nothing. Nothing of his _true _family. Of him. They are pathetic; people so low in their own life they stick to chattering about someone else's.

Inside the Boarding House, he is mostly kept away from the other guests. It is, after all, a functioning bed and breakfast style hotel. And he is a stranger, a fragile stranger adjusting to his new life without parents or siblings. Nobody knows what to expect from him. _He _doesn't know what to expect.

There is an anger brewing inside constantly, swishing and crashing in his head, stomach, and chest. Nauseous waves of confusion and hatred and sometimes even _loneliness_ are keeping him awake at night. He clutches the sheets of his fancy new bed in his fancy new bedroom in his fancy new home with his fancy new family each night as nightmares claw at his futile attempts to sleep.

Staring blankly at the dark room void of personal effects until his eyes go bleary becomes habit.

It frightens him.

Mr. and Mrs. Salvatore are (or, were, he reminds himself) friends of his parents from years ago, when the couple had lived in England before deciding to have kids and move back to Virginia. Of course, a few years later, after having a few children of their own, his mother and father packed up and came to the states as well.

When he was younger, Niklaus remembers playing with the Salvatore's twin boys, Stefan and Damon, whenever they would randomly show up at his residence in D.C. They were friendly then, and friendly now. But they are not his brothers, no matter what the documents say.

He is told that school will begin soon. Most of his previous life was spent in private schools, with uniforms and laws and rulers that smacked against the back of your hand if you so much as coughed out of turn.

Mr. Salvatore came with news of public school, the one attended by all of Mystic Fall's (the small place that it is) children. Unsure of what to make of the stories shared by Stefan and Damon about the wonders of this elementary school, Niklaus chooses to remain silent in his objections, not truly wanting to disturb the mild amount of peace he has received since moving here.

They say he is adjusting well to his new surroundings. The wildlife of central Virginia suits him. But he is not convinced. He was brought up with cities and loud traffic and shouting spouses. This new world, because it is an entirely different one, confuses him.

Wells of sickening emotion are steadily building inside his organs. He steadfastly denies himself the pleasure of remembering anything from that night, but it is creating a barricade inside his own head. He is caught between dreamland and reality far too often. Sometimes he can hear his mother screeching for his father to stop. Other times it is his brothers and his sister.

Only once has he woken up from a small nap still believing them to all be alive.

He has not made that mistake again.

* * *

It's getting easier, she thinks to herself. Life without a father isn't as bad as the movies make it seem.

Even at a mere ten years old, she knows that every look being sent her way is one of pity and regret. And she can't stand it. Her mother and herself are trying to recover, trying to get better. Caroline does not need their sorrow.

They are not the ones suffering. Their parent did not leave them, so why must they look at her like they _know_?

She started fourth grade a couple weeks ago, showing up only after she'd practiced her best fake smile for hours on end. The teachers have been lenient, because apparently being abandoned by your father entitles you to special treatment. Other kids stare at her with envy burning green holes in their irises and she wonders cruelly if they secretly want one of their parents to walk out so the teachers will show them mercy as well.

Her oldest friends, Elena and Bonnie, keep by her side constantly. Neither talk about her dad, and for that she is grateful. They hold her when she cries though, like the good friends they are. Matt, one year older than the three of them, accompanies them on their walk home from school each day even though her home is in the complete opposite direction of his. Caroline knows it's because of Elena. He's always had a crush on her, ever since he saw her. Even before he realised that girls could be cute and nice and something worth starting at.

But Elena's got her sights set on the Salvatore twins. She's lamented that she doesn't quite know which one to choose, they both are so enamoured with her. And they both are so adorably handsome and sweet. For twelve-year-olds.

Caroline has yet to delve into liking boys. They're immature and stupid and push her around too much. Elena guffaws at her when she says this, but Bonnie slaps her on the back and smiles. They are too young, too foolish, to be thinking of such things, let alone pursuing them.

Her mother has been picking up extra shifts, leaving Caroline in the care of the Salvatore's most afternoons after school is complete. She likes this, because she likes the twins. And it makes Elena a little jealous, which is never truly a bad thing for the girl who gets everything she wants. After thinking that, though, she feels a sliver of guilt. Elena has been kind. She is a good friend to Caroline, it isn't right to be so negative towards her.

She hears talk that there's a new boy living with the Salvatore's. A foster son. Nobody quite knows how he got to be in their care, but everyone is curious, unjustly so. She has not seen him, but she has heard the people who have. He supposedly speaks with an accent. He is in sixth grade. He has curls that bounce on his head. Moles cover his skin, as well as scars. He snarls at those who taunt him, but never fights back with vicious words of his own. Stefan and Damon never speak about him to her, nor to anyone else. She guesses they have been asked not to by their parents, but maybe they are just that good of young children.

It is during recess on the fifteenth day of school that she finally captures an image of the illustrious boy.

The fourth and sixth grade classes share their recess time, all the kids enjoying their freedom outside before being banished to the confines of the thick, brick walls once more.

Typically, she reasons, he must stay in the building while everyone else plays, but Stefan probably goaded him out today, and she cannot say she's pleased. Not because she doesn't wish to see him, because now, getting a look at him and seeing the hurt and mistrust and danger streaked on his face, she understands why he has been the talk of the small school. He is tall, taller than most of the boys, but gangly, like her. All bone and skin, no flesh. Weak, almost. But there's a definite strength behind him, following like a shadow with its sword raised, poised to slice through any who wish him harm.

No, she is not pleased because of who currently surrounds him, circling him like the blood-sucking vultures they are.

Tyler Lockwood, son of Mystic Fall's mayor and resident bully, approaches the boy first. Caroline sees the raven-haired boy's mouth move, spitting some hurtful words at the new kid. Tyler's posse laughs. The kid does too, though it is sick and twisted and probably extremely forced. It must taste acidic. It must burn a hole through his tongue.

Caroline's stomach clinches as she watches the scene unfold before her blue eyes, sensing the beginning of a fight before a punch has even been thrown. Stupid boys, she thinks, trying to be men. They turn to violence in order to shield their own skin, but no one walks away clean from brawls like these. Everyone bleeds in the end, even if it isn't as evident on some.

Far behind the scrawny kid, Stefan and Damon stand with their arms crossed and their faces contorted into nasty scowls. They look upset, but they do nothing to intervene when Tyler again says something that appears to cut the boy's skin so deep he staggers forward slightly, caught off balance by the hidden weight on his bony shoulders.

She knows the twins well, knows they fight only for family. But what is this boy to them? He is not yet family, definitely not blood. He is a ghost, really. Someone who floats between the realms, caught between fantasy and actuality. He is not their brother, but he is not their stranger.

In the back of her mind, she can still hear Elena and Bonnie chatting about how difficult fourth grade is going to be, what with multiplication and division and more _homework_ and the beginning of the SOL's, but she stopped listening long ago and barely pays attention to their shocked faces when she stands up and begins walking towards where the inevitable fight is taking place. No teachers have intervened yet, so of course the daughter of the sheriff must do her duty to keep the peace. Especially when the victim is as helpless as the kid she sees forlornly holding his head upright.

* * *

He watches her out of the corner of his eye as she approaches, hands clenched into fists at her sides, much like this child—Tyler—in front of him. His artistic mind takes over briefly and he blocks out Tyler's blabbering mouth for a second as he gulps in the features of this magnificent creature stalking like the stealthy lioness before pouncing on its prey.

She is brave. And possibly stupid.

School has not been going well, of course it hasn't. He expected nothing less. Even with the assurances from the Salvatore's, he knew he would not be welcomed. This town is small—close. He cannot expect to break its foundation without feeling the earthquake. Nobody here wants him, he's still not sure if the Salvatore's want him.

He does not mind it, this feeling of inadequacy, because when his parents were…here…he always felt left out and unloved; even though those thoughts often send aching shivers through his broken bones.

This is different, he cannot explain it well.

His siblings, despite the fights they often found themselves in, always supported him. When his _father_ would scold him for painting, shouting that it was not a man's game, his brothers and sister would hold him and whisper that he was talented and wonderful and deserved everything he received in life after finally breaking free of this prison cell. And here he is, lost, without a single soul telling him he is worth it.

Mikael and the rest of his family haunt his dreams and his days and his heart. They are a part of him. They are in his breath, in his walk, and in his voice. When he closes his eyes, he can see them: bloody, dying, as they wait for an ambulance to come rescue them, to carry them to safety. None of them can speak, their throats too clogged by blood and broken windpipes, and only make gargling noises at him, which he has since decided were their cries for help.

He tries desperately not to think too long on these images, but they are burned into his brain. Escape is something he cannot reach. And it pains him. It hurts him. It hurts his scars, because they are the reminders that he survived and lived and went on while the light slowly washed from their glistening eyes.

Voices inside his head tell him he is selfish for living, for abandoning them when they were meant to be a family. Sometimes he listens.

Those are the evenings he destroys his belongings, what little he arrived in Mystic Falls with. He must destroy the memories of his old life, the life he will never have again, and move forward. But that is such a difficult task for a twelve-year-old, and he ends up sobbing on his pillow more often than not, his sticky feelings riding him into the ground.

Children in school see his frailty and use it against him. Most have given him the nickname Annie. He does not know what it means, but he can only assume it is a great insult judging by the sheer amount of mock in their voices as they call to him.

Stefan and Damon, the cowards, tell him to back down and let it happen, because apparently they'll find someone else to taunt in a short while.

His hands are craving though, and while his left punch is not nearly as good as his right, he can still cause significant damage with a proper left swing.

Growing up with brothers taught him to always be on the lookout. Martial arts classes taught him how to fend off an attacker. Mikael taught him to never accept defeat. Nearly dying taught him life is much too short to let the bullies win.

So when the girl, this blonde girl with sparkling blue eyes and long limbs—she looks so delicately strong, the greatest oxymoron—steps in front of Tyler, her back to him, and starts shouting, he is surprised. He pulls his hand back and pretends he was not just about to clock the large boy in the throat, comically half-tempted to sound a casual whistle so as to convince everyone else that he is a gentle soul that means no harm.

"Back off, Tyler," he hears the girl slither, her tongue hitting her teeth like a snake's. Her canines must ache with venom.

"What's wrong, Forbes? Gotta save your new boyfriend?" Tyler taunts, and he wants to object, to say he's never even seen this girl before, but Forbes (what a strange name for a girl) speaks before he can even send the right signals to open his mouth.

"Jealous much?" She sneers, her hands gripping her hips so hard she may leave a mark.

She cannot be more than ten, but she speaks as though she has lived a thousand lifetimes. It intrigues him.

Tyler scoffs at her insinuation and Niklaus suddenly wants to punch him again, can feel his arm jerking, but stops himself when he finds no rationality for the response. This girl is not his to protect. Nor is he hers, but today he can let someone else fight his battle. Tyler is not worth it.

"You wish, hon."

"You're disgusting," the blonde spits. Something about her excites him, and he is oddly freaked out by it. It has been months since he felt excited. Months to one as young as him—and to one who nearly had all his months, future and past, stripped away—are practically decades.

"Do you wanna know what's disgusting, Forbes?" Tyler pushes. Forbes tilts her head a bit and Niklaus sees her blonde waves splash against her shoulders. "Your daddy running off with a man. That's just not right."

Forbes' body goes rigid. She says nothing. She stands there, blocking the path between Tyler and himself, motionless.

Everybody's frozen, even Tyler. He knows he shouldn't have said that, Niklaus catches the small amount of trepidation on his face after the words leave his mouth, but it is gone quickly and replaced by a glare.

"Leave him alone," Forbes finally says, so low he has to strain his ears to hear her. He isn't positive she's speaking about him or her supposedly gay father, but either way, Tyler takes one step back and she pivots around to face him, blue eyes shining with what can only be unshed tears.

She stares at him for one long second, unspeaking. Without warning, she tugs on his left arm and brings him to Stefan and Damon. How does she know to take him to them?

"You," she says, pointing at Stefan with the hand that isn't gripping his elbow. "You were supposed to protect him," she insists angrily. "And you were supposed to help," she says to Damon. "He's your brother now, so act like it."

Her words catch each of the three boys off guard, but none more than him. She's a spitfire. A blonde, blue-eyed spitfire. But these scared boys, they aren't his to claim. They probably never will be. She is wasting her breath.

"Caroline," Stefan says slowly with a hint of regret. Niklaus looks at the blonde for a moment with a scowl. _Caroline_? "I'm sorry."

"No, no," she shakes her head, her blonde tendrils hitting his arm like leather whips. "Don't apologise to me." She pushes him forward so he can look the twins in the eyes and they both mumble half-assed apologies that sound sour even to him.

"Great," the girl sighs, unconvinced. "I'm going to take your new brother and swing with him," she announces, taking his arm again and dragging him away.

He turns back. Stefan and Damon have their mouths hanging open. Damon's inky black hair contrasts devilishly with his marble skin and icy blue eyes as he stares what Niklaus figures as lustfully at the blonde attached to his elbow.

Can boys as young as them have such carnal desires already?

"You shouldn't let them talk to you like that," she grumbles.

He says nothing in return, but she doesn't seem to mind as they reach the swings. She sits on one black strip and motions for him to do the same, a smile forming on her delicate lips.

"You're supposed to swing with me," she reminds him, and he does not mention that he has yet to agree to anything.

Niklaus plops down next to her bitterly and grips the chain with his one good arm, kicking his feet on the ground to gain some momentum. He feels the pinch of rusty metal breaking his skin, but the pain is welcome.

"I'm Caroline, by the way."

He glances up from his lap and through the hazy sunshine sees her looking at him, her bright hair framing her face like a halo.

"Tyler called you Forbes?" He says, but it sounds more like a question and he wants to stop swinging and run away.

Her eyes widen when he speaks. Was she not expecting the accent? It's still strong, despite the length of time he's lived in the U.S.

"Uh," she recovers, "yeah, it's my last name. Or was. I'm not sure what my mom's doing now that my dad isn't here."

Not knowing how to properly respond, Niklaus looses himself in the feel of the sun and the breeze.

He must be silent too long because she starts talking again, interrupting his thoughts.

"Do you have a name?" She asks expectantly.

He furrows his brows. Has she not seen him? Heard all the rumours about him? Surely she must know the name _Annie_ at least.

"Niklaus," he declares, tightening his hold on the chain. He hears her laugh and he knows it's about his name, about how odd sounding it is, but he finds that he enjoys the sound of her laughter too much to care.

"Niklaus?" She questions as if he stuttered, which he knows he did not.

He nods his head in affirmation. "You don't have to call me that though," he assures her, unsure of what else she's meant to call him. Niklaus is his name. Outside of his family, everyone uses that name. It is his identifier, his home; the one bit of it he has left.

"What should I call you then?"

"Everyone here calls me Annie," he says through a resentful sneer, kicking the mulch with unnecessary force.

"I wouldn't," she stresses. It must truly be a cruel nickname.

Thinking on it for a second, Niklaus reasons with himself that he can always strip her off of him if she gets too much to handle. He's never been good at keeping friends, so if she decides that for now she wants to try, he can humour her. Tease her. Give her a taste of him before retreating into his dark soul.

"Klaus," he says finally, after much deliberation.

Though he is not facing her, he can see her smile, her teeth, shining in the sunlight. "Klaus," she agrees.

* * *

He is waiting for her class to come outside after lunch, already swinging on his swing, growling at anyone who dares sit next to him and watches with a sick smile as they scurry away with their tail chattering between their legs.

Every day at recess, Caroline makes her way over to him. Sometimes they are surrounded by mutual silence, other times they laugh, other times they hold back tears for no apparent reason. He never talks of his family, and she never talks of hers.

She is the daughter of the town's sheriff, Stefan told him that. It explains her hardness.

They do not speak outside of the playground, though he is aware that she gets dropped at the Salvatore Boarding House every day when school finishes. He can sometimes hear her play with Stefan and Damon while he sits by his bedroom window. They move fast outside the house, their bodies flashing on the vast lawn as they shout their joy. A part of him wants to join. His arm is all healed now, he can do it, but the bigger part of him warns him to stay put, to wallow a bit more in sorrow.

He's not picked up a paintbrush yet, not since they removed his cast. His arm still pulses and he's got scars where they had to put a metal plate in his wrist. It is hell.

"What's going to happen when it snows?" She asks as she perches on the edge of her swing. Her voice startles him.

He frowns. "What do you mean?"

"We can't be outside when it snows."

Niklaus looks at the sky. Clouds billow across the sun, shadowing the western world. A breeze picks up, blowing fallen leaves and pine cones. Winter is nearing, he can smell the cold.

"I don't know," he breathes, watching his breath fly like smoke.

They are silent together as they gently swing in the wind. He is wrapped up in warm clothes, jeans and a jacket and sneakers. Caroline wears a purple hat that brings out her eyes and he catches himself staring. She is beautiful, he can admit that. One day he would like to draw her.

"How's it going with Tyler?" She pipes.

"Not as bad," he lies. He's got a bruise on his stomach above his scar from Tyler's tiny knuckles. Who knew boys played so rough.

"Good."

She says this, but he is not sure if she believes him.

* * *

His bedroom is dark, the blood red blinds drawn and casting a hideous shadow over every piece of furniture.

The canvas he has spent the past hour staring at is tormenting him. Tyler's face dances on the surface. Anger boils in his veins, but then the figure transforms into Caroline and he exhales, ridding his body of the toxic hatred, if only for a moment.

_Tap tap tap_. His bedroom door rattles.

"Klaus," someone says. Caroline.

Fear ebbs through him. His room is a disaster: the sheets on his bed are rumpled, there is glass on the carpet. His clothes litter the wooden floor. His blood stains the walls.

No one enters his room. Not Mr. and Mrs. Salvatore, not their twin boys, not the maids. He is alone here, it is his sanctuary. What is she doing knocking on the door?

"Klaus," she calls again, scared. He is there, she can sense it, he knows.

Why did she have to defend him to Tyler all those weeks ago? He's not a puppy in need of protection. It irritates him, sets him blind with rage, that this has happened. She's not his family, she does not need to help him.

"Come on, Klaus. Damon and Stefan had to go to their stupid fencing lesson. Play with me!" She whines, and he cannot say no. He has never been good at it.

He stands up and tries to take one of those deep breaths his psychologist taught him. Apparently, they soothe the soul, but he does not believe it.

His lungs are shaken as he gets to the door and twists the old handle, peeping his head out.

"Were you napping?" Caroline asks. She is chipper, wearing pink and blue and white. Pretty.

Lifting his left hand, he rubs his eyes. "Yes," he lies. He finds he does that more often than not. But they are white lies, small things that can barely be considered untruths.

"Sorry," she whispers sheepishly.

"It's fine. I'm awake now." This is true, she always manages to awaken him. They have known each other a few months, and though it started as a game, he ruefully accepts they're friends.

Caroline laughs and he fights a smile. She says he has a handsome smile. "Well, come play. You can teach me all about this fascinating chess game you talk so highly of."

Niklaus raises his eyebrows in disbelief. "Yeah?"

"Duh," she clicks, cocking her head.

He slips out of his room, sure that she did not see anything inside, and shuts the door. Caroline grabs his elbow and slips her arm through, linking them. He swallows hard, ignoring the pang in his chest at the intimate gesture. She tries so hard to make him feel like he belongs.

"Take me to your lair," she says in an overenthusiastic, fake British accent.

"Is that what I sound like?" He asks through a pained laugh.

"No, you sound much cooler," she acknowledges and his chest bursts with pride. "Sorry for barging in on you. I know you don't like people going up to your room. I'm just super bored."

"It's not a problem, Caroline," he tells her, and it shocks him that he's speaking the truth.

1.1.1

"Checkmate," he calls for the fourth time that evening, smiling gleefully at a crushed Caroline. He did not realise before how competitive she is. It's enthralling; yet another thing about her that is so astonishing.

"Unfair. You could probably beat Professor X at this game," she complains.

"Who?"

Caroline blinks at him. "You don't know who Professor X is? Have you never seen X-Men?" He shakes his head. "Dude, what have you been doing with your life?"

"Is that a rhetorical question? Because I _am_ only twelve. We adolescents don't typically have many skills under our belts."

"Dummy," she teases playfully, sticking her tongue out and closing her eyes. He briefly lets his heart melt. When she opens her eyes, it turns back to stone. "Do you wanna watch X-Men? Super good movie."

"What's it about?" He asks, setting the chess pieces in their rightful place. He always plays black.

"Mutants," she whispers as though it is a great secret.

"Mutants?" _Mutant_, he thinks, _defined as the result of or showing the effect of mutation. _

"Yes. People with really awesome mutations. They all go to this school run by a guy, Professor X, who helps them realise that they aren't freaks. They're just different. And amazing. They save the world," she explains, smiling clandestinely.

He ignores her insinuation, not sure she notices it herself. He is not a mutant, he knows. There is nothing wrong with his DNA. But he definitely feels like a freak.

"Okay then," he cedes, placing the final piece back on the board.

1.1.1

As the end credits role and the Salvatore's still have not returned home, Caroline turns to him on the sofa, arms in her lap.

"My dad sent me a card yesterday."

He spares a glance at her and sees her lip quiver loosely. She bites it.

He's no good at comfort. "What did it say?"

"Basically just a 'hello, hope you aren't dead' thing."

Is she really only ten?

"And…how did that make you feel?" He asks, unsure, trying to recall all the things his psychologist asks him. That question is most popular.

She hesitates, releasing her lip. There is a spot of blood. He reaches to swipe it away before he understands what he is doing. They stare at the red tinged liquid on his thumb like it is a great work of art.

He retracts his arm quick, rubbing his thumb with his forefinger and letting her blood sink into his skin.

"Angry," she confesses breathlessly. Her throat, he can see it contracting with sadness. She swallows what must feel like a cotton ball. "So angry."

"I'm sorry," he offers lamely. He is so overwhelmed by his own feelings, he sometimes forgets other people have them too. He does not want to see her suffer, but he cannot fix himself, so how can he imagine fixing her?

"It's not your fault, Klaus," she ensures him, though her voice cracks as she says his name.

"I suppose not." He swallows his own cotton ball thickly. "My father never really cared about me."

They both jump at his statement, her out of surprise and him out of annoyance. What led him to say that?

He swore he'd never mention them, any of them. They are his shackles, his prison cell. They keep him grounded and broken. Speaking about them sets them loose, gives them a power over him he isn't ready to supply. They can shout at him in his head where he can control them, but if he grants them freedom…

"That can't be true," Caroline murmurs glumly. She does not know the whole story, but she does know that he is orphaned.

"Never mind," he says quickly, hoping to drop the topic. He can already feel the darkness calling him, embedding its infectious teeth in his bones.

The sofa sinks and he can feel Caroline's breath on his face. "Tell me," she orders, her voice so soft and inviting and bright. It severs a hole in the darkness.

"Caroline," he begs. They are children, but they are old souls.

"Who have you told who hasn't already known?" She asks.

_No one. _

"Tell me," she repeats. "It will hurt. It will always hurt. But you're letting it eat you. It's not healthy."

She's right. It hurts and he knows it always will. There's no escaping it, but he can try.

"Please," he pleads, letting her see the pain on his face.

Her mouth opens, but the sound of the front door to the west wing of the house (the bit where the Salvatore's and himself live) opening forces her lips to seal shut.

"Caroline, are you ready to go home?" Stefan bellows.

"Shut up, you'll wake Niklaus," Mr. Salvatore chastises.

Klaus chuckles, humourless and torn, and is caught off guard horribly when Caroline wraps her arms around his neck and squeezes. She whispers a sorry goodbye and leaps off the sofa, shooting him one last _regretful _smile before disappearing out the family room door.

She is getting too close.

* * *

She is getting too close, but his heart is so heavy that his back is crumbling and he needs to tell _someone. _

Caroline is sleeping over at the Salvatore's tonight. Her mother is on a nightshift. It is odd knowing she is in one of the guest rooms, in her pyjamas, drifting to unconsciousness.

Usually she goes to one of her other friends' houses when the sheriff takes a nightshift, but they were unavailable tonight, so she is stuck here.

They watched another movie, but this time with Damon and Stefan joining them. It was the next film in the X-Men franchise, and he still thinks she doesn't know what she is doing to him.

His feet are light on the carpeted floor as he searches for her room. It will be the one that has a cracked door, because Caroline is afraid of the dark and the Salvatore's have no night lights.

He spots it easily, taking stealthy steps until he can see a sliver of light bathing the dusky room. Her curtains are open, he notices, spilling moonlight inside and setting the room ablaze with blue fire.

Soft breathing hits his ears, her chest rising and falling with each stuttered gasp. Dreams are a beautiful thing.

Disturbing her would be bad, sinful really. She is so elegant in sleep. But Mikael is calling his name and when he closes his eyes he is forced to watch Death take his siblings one by one. He needs this girl, this pathetically amazing girl who has looked past all of his darkness and all of his pain.

He needs his friend.

It is a weakness he exercises often when it comes to her, _need_. He never needed anyone other than his family, but they are all gone and he is left with nothing but the shell of their memories. Caroline, so young and vibrant and caring, she is what he has.

He hopes she never finds out.

"Caroline," he murmurs, nudging her jacket-covered shoulder. She jolts awake, her hair glued to her cheek, her blue eyes misty. She squints at him.

"Klaus?" Her hand rubs at her face, removing the sweaty strands of blonde waves. "What's wrong?"

He could kiss her for not asking _why _he was there. She's too accepting of him. But he will never admit that, it hurts too much to think.

"I want to tell you what happened," he says carefully, making sure every word is delivered properly.

Caroline sits up straighter, her eyes going wide. He thinks she nods, so he collapses on the bed next to her, sitting with his back to the headboard. She scoots beside him and touches her small fingers to his jaw. The gesture soothes his worries.

"Take your time," she lulls, her voice like pure, liquid sugarcane he so aspires to lap up.

He nods, somehow having lost his ability to speak. He can hear his thoughts growing louder, feel the tightening of his throat, and he cannot talk. She is gracious towards him, much more so than he deserves.

Having a mother such as she has must have taught her certain skills. This is perhaps one of the many.

"Mikael," he begins, his vocal chords warping and coiling and cracking, "my father, he had been working on a very difficult case. He was a lawyer in D.C. and always got handed these impossible cases, but he never lost. I could tell there was a difference with this one. He started drinking more, hitting us more."

Caroline chokes and he wants to bite himself for bringing this up. She is too young to hear his horror stories.

"Go on," she ushers him, placing her head on his shoulder. Through the cotton of his nightshirt he can feel a wetness. He is making her cry.

_No_, Mikael is making her cry. His overuse of past tense verbs is making her cry.

Niklaus takes a deep breath, preparing himself, pushing his throat open. "We were celebrating my brother's graduation. It was raining heavily on the way home. Mikael had gotten a call during the dinner that clearly made him upset and he'd had a couple glasses of alcohol, but my Mother let him drive anyway." He pauses, the next words tickling his tongue. Caroline presses her head into his bony shoulder, silently telling him it's all okay.

He will never know why he believes her. Why he always believes her.

"It was raining and dark and there was a sports car coming the other way. The road was narrow, but we could have avoided it. I wasn't supposed to hear what the police said, but they think it wasn't an accident." He sincerely hopes Caroline, young and innocent, will understand what his words mean. He cannot say it out loud, not yet. He can't even think it. The words are too sinister, which is a rich thought coming from him.

"Stay with me tonight, Klaus," Caroline says, her words cutting him like jagged glass.

"Yes," he bleeds, because he cannot say no.

No one in the Salvatore house will mind him staying with her. Caroline and himself both suffer from nightmares, and the twins parents—his foster parents—are aware of his friendship with Caroline. No one will think anything of it.

He slides down on his side, his vision blurring due to the amount of painful tears welling, and waits for Caroline to join him.

She curls into his body like the child she is, using him as a pillow.

It's a comfort and a curse because she knows, she must know, how much he _needs _her. And now she knows it all.

He thinks it is good she cannot see inside his head and stand witness to the madness that lies there. The madness created by Mikael and his stupid, rage-induced twist of the steering wheel.

"Goodnight, Caroline," he whispers into her hair. She curls closer and he sleeps well.

* * *

**A/N 2: **Thoughts?


End file.
